


The Mercy of Frith

by lorata



Category: Watership Down - Richard Adams
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble Sequence, Gen, Missing Scene, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Rabbits, Yuletide, Yuletide 2014, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2796464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorata/pseuds/lorata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There was a great deal more to him than anyone could have guessed.</i> Watership Down, page 384.</p>
<p>Blackavar: son, soldier, dissident, victim, ally, friend. Ten glimpses into the life of a rabbit who went from pitiful prisoner to valued confidante as soon as he was given the chance.</p>
<p>A sequence of drabbles on a theme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mercy of Frith

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gonergone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonergone/gifts).



> Treat for gonergone.
> 
> Warning for canonical violence regarding Blackavar's punishment in numbers 005 & 006\. It's less graphic than the book gets, but if you think that might be too much, please feel free to skip those two. I've numbered them to make it easier.

001.

Frost crackles under Blackavar’s paws, clumps of frozen dirt digging into the tender pads. Inlé shines hard and watchful; Blackavar picks at the chilly grass and shivers as the ice scrapes his teeth. It is no weather for silflay, but their Mark was called and so they feed.

“Mother,” he murmurs. “Did ye have Marks at Nutley Copse?”

Mother raises her head. The old scar sits pale at the hollow of her throat. “No. We slept where we chose, silflayed as we pleased.” Chervil sits up, ears pricked, eyes narrowed; Mother ducks down. “Hush, quickly.”

Born in Efrafa, Blackavar obeys.

 

002.

Father is an Efrafan officer; solid, strong, fur black as rain-soaked bark. Officers don’t live with rabbits from captured warrens, yet Father spends occasional nights in Mother’s burrow. Blackavar gives them privacy, sleeping next door.

“I’m going to join the Owsla like Father,” Blackavar tells Mother. She nuzzles him, but stops to scuffle the dirt, shoulders hunched.

A homba kills Father out on Wide Patrol; Mother entertains no other bucks, kindles no more kittens. _Marli tharn_ , others whisper, but each day she stands straight, holds her head high.

“Do ye miss him?” Blackavar asks.

“Have some willow,” says Mother.

 

003.

“Elil are not the only ones with cunning,” Mother growls. “General Woundwort has his, too. The Council takes our freedom in exchange for safety. We compete to earn back what he stole, and he calls it privilege.”

Blackavar scratches the fresh bite on his right forepaw. “I’m in the Owsla soon. It’ll be different.”

“Never pay for what should be yours.” Mother’s ears lie flat against her skull. “Remember that!”

“You’re in the Right Fore now,” says Captain Mallow the next morning. “You should leave Left Flank behind.”

Blackavar obeys, but Mother’s words fester long after his Mark wound heals.

 

004.

On stormy nights the thunder rolls and rumbles in the distance until it explodes overhead, a clap that makes kittens cry out and the does hunch to protect their young. So, too, comes discontent.

A group of does whisper in a side burrow; Blackavar overhears snatches ( _can’t, litters, unhappy_ ) and joins. The plan coalesces slowly: form a committee, petition the Council, join a new warren far away.

General Woundwort refuses. The does are separated, Blackavar reprimanded. Dissatisfaction curdles in his chest until, like spring buds bursting into bloom overnight, he snaps.

An owl’s cry draws the sentries’ attention.

Blackavar bolts.

 

005.

Claws rake through his ears, ripping sinew and flesh. Officers grip his head, grind his nose into the dirt. He chokes on blood and soil, scrabbles with his front paws, lashes out with his hind legs. Heavy weight settles on his haunches; teeth close over the back of his neck, pinning him still.

“Traitor! Filthy coward. Run now, if you can!”

Blackavar quivers, terror and fury in equal measure. They tell him to beg for mercy. “Never!” he gasps, until someone approaches.

“Allow me.” Woundwort: hard as wire, cold as Inlé. His claws dig deep, and at last Blackavar screams.

 

006.

_The Council were merciful._

Blackavar recovers in a guarded burrow. A beetle crawls over one ruined ear, burrowing into the torn flesh. He twitches, feebly, knocking it loose, and it scuttles away. He won’t die; they won’t let him yet. Death is too easy for traitors.

_The Council were merciful_.

He dreams of Nutley Copse. Does torn to pieces while protecting their kittens, their bodies stiff and cold in the soil. Mother stands tall and proud before the Owsla. “Just kill me,” she demands. Her eyes pierce him through. “Give birth to _that_ failure? He couldn’t even run.”

_The Council…_

 

007.

Rabbits come and go. They sniff and stare, cry and skitter away before the Owslafa drag them past. Blackavar recites his speech, mumbling, the words meaningless. They’ll kill him soon; if not, he’ll bolt and force them. Better Inlé than this.

Then a strange buck joins him, speaking of escape before bounding away. Blackavar remains in his defeated hunch until the sentries call for him to return, but his heartbeat flutters.

Guards cuff him. “Head down, traitor!”

Sparking with sudden, forgotten fury, Blackavar nearly meets their gaze before recalling himself. He drops his head, but too late. Fire has kindled.

 

008.

Chief Hazel has been touched by Frith; nothing else makes sense.

Blackavar holds no love for Efrafa, but General Woundwort, while cruel and detached, was efficient. He taught them well; every worthy buck learned tracking, patrolling, the best (and worst) places to stop and rest. Most importantly, Woundwort taught them to obey.

The Watership Down rabbits squabble, debate their Chief, refuse orders, yet arrive home with only two losses. Frith’s mercy indeed.

“You’ll get used to it,” Thlayli reassures him. “Have some clover.”

“If you say, sir.”

Thlayli shoves him, and they tussle in the grass as Blackavar slowly unwinds.

 

009.

Captain Holly finds him on the cliff. “Incredible view, isn’t it.”

Blackavar doesn’t answer; small talk was never a virtue in Efrafa. Holly, thankfully, speaks plainly. Now he sits up, mutilated ear drooping over one shoulder. One day Blackavar might ask how that happened.

“Woundwort almost had us; if not for that mouse’s warning, he would have. We need Wide Patrols, and a good rabbit to show us how.”

Blackavar considers. “Groundsel, maybe. He’s solid.”

“No.” Holly nudges his shoulder. “I’ve already found him.”

Blackavar startles, then catches himself. Holly settles beside him, and together they fall into companionable silence.

 

010.

Evening sunlight splashes the downs, grass tinged golden. Heavy breezes stir the flowers; fat bees buzz on purple blossoms. Blackavar drifts, eyes half closed.

A younger buck and doe lope over the hill crest. His fur shines black as wet bark; her head is high, eyes proud. Their scents stir memory: quiet nights, deep underground. “Come, Blackavar,” says the doe. “We’ve been waiting.”

Blackavar tires easily now. “Where?”

“Far and away,” says the buck. “A Wide Patrol like you’ve never seen.”

Blackavar rises. “Show me.”

The doe nuzzles his ears, smooth and whole, and together they run toward the fields.


End file.
